


wanting

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:59:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"nothing could have prepared me for seeing this"</p><p>The idea which ended up getting out of hand. One scene from three different viewpoints. Originally posted in December 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wanting

**the end has only just begun**

I'm exhausted after my match, bone weary and I'm dragging my feet as I head back towards the car, bag slung over my shoulders and I don't realise that I've left my watch back in the locker room until I look down to check the time. There's a moment while I consider leaving it there until tomorrow, I'm so tired I don't even want to think about the long trek back there, but I know it's easier to go back now, I don't want to have to come back tomorrow and see the players still in the tournament, the ones who still have a chance of getting that trophy, and I especially don't want to see him.

After dumping my bags in the car I head back, trainers not making a sound but leaving an indent in the plush carpet and it's quiet, silent even, not even an official around and that's a little strange, even if we were the last match on, the highlight of the day, supposedly, although it was nothing close. After last night I hadn't had the energy, not after playing for over three hours and it being midnight when I finished. Tonight I wasn't quite there on court, and he beat me easily.

This one hurts more than any loss so far, mostly because I'm sure that any other day I could have taken him.

He could still be here, and he's the last person I want to see, and before I open the locker room door I pause, the metal cool under the palm of my hand, preparing myself for possibly seeing him again, this close after the loss.

Two steps into the room I freeze, because nothing could have prepared me for seeing this.

They're kissing against the wall, he's pressed against it by Roger, the man I've adored for so long and I feel something, not unlike jealously or anger but it's neither of the two, it's something else and I can't put my finger on it, it's not something I've ever felt before. I don't struggle with it, I just accept the feeling, and I know I shouldn't be watching this but I can't bring myself to tear my eyes away.

I have to admit they look beautiful together. He's almost golden under the lighting in the locker room, skin almost glowing and Roger's darker, more tanned but they contrast each other perfectly.

The kiss isn't romantic, not really, it's not soft and slow but neither is it frantic, it's not all teeth and tongue, it's a mixture of the two, sensual, tongues sliding over each other, the only sound in the room the sound of them kissing, lips coming together and apart and the occasional clash of teeth.

In fact, it's more than sensual, it's fucking hot. I would give anything to be him, the one that Roger's kissing, the one with my back against the wall and this time the jealousy gets me.

It's just Roger I watch at first, I don't take notice of him, just Roger, and I focus on the way Roger's pink tongue is teasing, how he's in control and how he seems to be making him believe that he's going to get what he wants and then he doesn't, not quite, and it's a perfect copy of how you feel when you play him, teasing into you into thinking that you're doing everything right, that you're in control and then you're not.

Yes, it's exactly like that.

My gaze flits to Roger's hands, just resting on his waist, one looped through the belt loop on his jeans and long, tapered fingers touching bare skin and with the other there's a deft unbuttoning of his jeans, one that must have come from months or years of practise because he makes it looks so easy and there's that wave of jealousy again because I want to be the one under Roger's hands so badly.

He tugs his jeans over his hips and I watch with fascination as the hand disappears beneath the blue cotton of his boxers and he gasps "Roger," and it's drawn out into a moan, followed by "holy fucking hell," the kiss broken momentarily, until Roger captures his lips again, still ever so teasing but playful now as he moves his hand, getting what he thinks can only be considered a loud response from him, he's moaning and gasping and whimpering under Roger's hands.

I'm harder than I want to admit, erection pressing almost painfully against the front of my jeans, knuckles white as I grip the edge of the door. I watch him now, watch his every reaction because I want nothing more than to be the one whimpering and moaning and I have to bite my lip, toes curling because, fuck, I'm so turned on by this I don't want to move. I don't even know if I can move, I don't know if I have the strength to do it.

"Oh, holy... Roger... fuck," the next cry comes. If it was earlier in the day I'd be worried that someone would come and see me watching them but I know there's not, I'm sure that Roger wouldn't be giving him a hand job in the locker room if anyone was around.

It's his next words which do me in, just the way that Roger says "hush, Andy" in that voice, that beautiful accent that I could listen to forever and I love the way that my name sounds on his lips and I can almost make myself believe that he's talking to me.

Roger's kissing him again now, probably to keep him quiet and then he arches into Roger's hand, eyes screwed shut, Roger's hand on his back as he comes. He doesn't open his eyes right away, not until Roger presses a kiss into the crook of his neck and I freeze as he looks at me.

I'm sure I look like a deer in headlights, eyes wide, and the look of possession in his eyes scare me, he's telling me to back off without a word and I do, I bolt out the door, the metal swinging shut behind me and I'm sure that the American says something, his voice floating after me but I can't make it out, and I don't think I'm meant to.

I trip over my own feet a couple of times before I reach the car, out of breath and it's only then that I realise I've forgotten my watch.

**what it feels like to feel**

It's an oddly breezy night in Australia when I approach him, standing next to him as he waits for his car and he greets me with a smile like always, ready to say something before I start, telling him that I need some help from him. Almost instantly he asks what, and it's a better reaction than I expected, I expected to at least have to beg a little, and as his car pulls up, I say I'll talk to him tomorrow about it and he just nods.

His attention doesn't waver as I explain the next day in the small café down the street from the hotel, a rare feat for Andy who I know has the attention span of a goldfish almost all of the time, and I take a sip of coffee as he mulls it over, his brain working until the grin on his face makes me want to bolt for the door. He must have been a wicked child, all troublesome plans and mischievous antics and he hasn't changed much. It's why I chose him. I've spent enough time around him to know that he'll come up with something good.

And he does, it's something that shocks me at first but as it sinks in it doesn't seem to disgust me as much as it possibly should, because kissing Andy Roddick in public view is something which I should definitely not want. Even so, I find myself agreeing to it, and almost regretting it afterwards, when he leaves with a "you owe me," and a smile.

Two months later he says it's time, after his match with him tomorrow, and he promises me that he'll win and that he'll come back, and somehow I know it's true but I don't want to know how he's going to do it. I say that I'll be there, no matter what, because really, I want this kid off my back. At first his crush was cute, but months later it's just annoying, seemingly he's everywhere I am.

I push open the door hesitantly and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see him there, even though he's only in jeans and he smirks as he catches me staring at his chest, all tan and muscles, and he tugs one of his Lacoste polo shirts over his head.

He's still barefoot and doesn't bother to put on a pair of shoes as he picks up his dirty laundry from near the showers, looking around for something.

"Can you see a sock?" he asks and I shake my head, him disappearing into the shower room and reappearing moments later, sock in hand.

After his clothes are placed in the players laundry bag he turns to me, brilliant smile on his face, and I must look worried because he tells me that everything will be okay, taking his hand in mine and immediately I'm more relaxed.

I am a little nervous - more of his reaction than anything else, I don't know how he's going to react to me kissing Andy, but the second that Andy gently presses his lips to mine it doesn't seem to matter, he's all I'm thinking about. My left hand is resting on his lip lightly, fingers tucked into the waist band of his jeans, thumb touching smooth skin.

He's the first man I've ever kissed, stubble rough against my own and it's different to kissing someone female, there's no sticky lip gloss in a million different flavours or sweet perfume, he's just Andy and he tastes of coffee and chocolate, bitter and sweet all at the same time and I like it, and I want more.

I edge him towards the wall so his back is pressed against it, my hands resting on his hips so that he can't move, he's at my mercy, mouths not parting other than to breathe, and I edge his mouth open with his tongue, me having total control which is strange. Andy always wants to be in control, always wants to have the upper hand. He's admitted to me that although he loves to play me, he hates not having the control over the match, he always feels as though I'm just playing with him and always one step ahead.

The feeling of kissing him right now is oddly the same though I think right now, he's letting me have it. I tease him, nibbling and sucking on his bottom lip, flicking my tongue over his, pulling away just slightly and just when he thinks he might be getting somewhere, responding with interest he doesn't, and I start all over again.

It's fun, really, and I've never really done this before, never just kissed someone, teasing them into wanting everything and anything and it might make me selfish but I don't care right now, having Andy at my mercy is wonderful, especially when I can feel the smile on his lips.

Even through his jeans I can feel that he's hard, his erection pressing into my stomach, his legs much longer than my own. Over the last few months - ever since we started planning this - he's been a little more flirty, a little more obvious with his affections, ones that I hadn't noticed before he came up with the plan but looking back over the years we've known each other I should have seen it. It's flattering - from Andy it's definitely not hero worship, and it's kind of... nice.

Without thinking I'm unbuttoning his jeans with one hand, sliding one over his stomach and I push the jeans off his hips. He doesn't notice until I'm stroking him gently, him writhing beneath me, arching into my hand, my name on his lips and I don't think I've ever seen anything more beautiful, even with his vice-like grip on my arms that I'm sure will leave bruises.

My mouth finds his again, nipping at his bottom lip and he moans, wanting more.

"Oh, holy... Roger... fuck."

"Hush, Andy," I tell him and he does and I don't know whether it's because it's me who's telling him or it's a rare moment of silence for him, but I don't really want to take me chances and kiss him again until his hips arch and he's coming, crying out softly and I think it's my name on his lips but I can't be sure, it's mumbled and I just take him through it, him clinging to me and my hand on his back.

When he's calm again I kiss him softly, trailing kisses down his neck until he cups my face, callused palm just resting against my cheek and he tells me he's gone and that he saw. There's a part of me that's relieved to know the plan worked, that he saw us and hopefully he'll stop bothering me now, but mostly I just want to keep kissing Andy although I'm painfully hard from it and I'm sure he can feel that.

I run my hand through his hair, still damp from the shower and it's soft against my fingers, and he shivers as I touch the bare skin at the back of his neck and then I kiss him again before I take a step back, realisations of what I just did, what we just did, hitting me with full force and I duck my head, not wanting to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," I say softly, and I'm not sure he heard me until he replies.

"I was happy to help," he says and I can't help but look at him and there's that grin on his face, the one that makes him look as though he's just gotten everything he ever wanted, and maybe he has. "I-"

"I could tell you were."

He laughs, and he's beautiful, pink staining his cheeks a little and I don't think I can just walk away from him, not now. Andy's addictive, and I want more. Fortunately for me, I think he wants it too.

**walks around in circles in my head**

The plan's all been set, I picked the perfect time and while he was showering I hid his watch, giving him a reason to come back and see us because otherwise, it won't work. I don't think that Roger would approve of the watch-stealing, so I haven't told him, and he doesn't ask.

He's hesitant, just a little shy and nervous about it at first but all I have to do is take his hand and he relaxes. There's no meeting in the middle, he's scared and I press my lips to his gently, and feel him smile, one of his hands resting on my waist, looped through the waist of my jeans so comfortably I wish it would never leave.

That's a little too much to ask, however much I like Roger I wouldn't - I couldn't - ask him to do this again, not if he doesn't want it, not when he seemed so reluctant about the whole thing in the first place, almost as though the idea of kissing me was so repulsive. The fact that he agreed to the whole plan gave me a little hope but I can feel it fading away again, even though I've liked him for years.

It started at that Davis Cup tie way back when I was just a kid and he was too, I was fascinated by the way he played, fascinated by him, and at first I thought it was just infatuation but then he started talking to me and I knew it was more. Maybe not love, not yet, but if he keeps doing that thing with his tongue it very well could be.

The kiss is teasing, playful, tongues tangling and lips meeting and it's what I've wanted since I saw him, and I never thought it would be quite this good. I love his mouth, his tongue, and it's unfair that someone that good at tennis should have a mouth that talented, although at this moment I'm not really caring, letting him tease me with it, letting him have the control. I don't want to push him too far, don't want to scare him away, because this isn't for me.

And then he's here, I can feel him watching us and I grin into the kiss, because it's exactly what Roger wanted, exactly what the plan was for, although I can't deny I'm getting my fair share of kicks from it all.

His hands are still resting on my waist, so comfortable there and I focus on his mouth again, on that very pink tongue which keeps teasing me into thinking that sometime I'm going to get exactly what I want, and the second I think that I don't, him pulling back just slightly and then it starts all over again, and it's not until I feel a tug on my jeans and-

Oh, fucking hell, this is good.

Fingers rough from years of tennis do their magic, and, oh fuck, it's feels better than anything else just because it's Roger jerking me off and, fuck, this wasn't part of the plan. It's a nice addition, wonderful addition, and I cling to him, kissing him, pressed against the wall still and I moan and whimper, probably babbling some nonsense like I usually do until he says "hush, Andy," and I shut up because it's Roger telling me to, and then he kisses me again until I come, arching up into him, crying out and he takes me through it, hand pressed into my back.

Afterwards he kisses me again, no tongue this time, and I savour the moment. It's when he pulls away a little, pressing kisses into my neck that I look over at the door, and give him a warning glare, telling him to back off, Roger's mine, and when he runs I only wish that I was true.

I don't want this to be over, and I cup his face, nudging it up to look at me and murmur "he's gone, he saw," and he smiles. We're barely an inch apart and it's taking all my strength not to kiss him, not to turn him and return the favour because I can feel his hard-on pressing into my thigh, and maybe, just maybe he likes me too.

He runs his hand through my hair, trailing his fingers along the back of my neck and I shiver under his touch, and there's one final kiss before he steps back, pulling away a little, ducking his head shyly, the Roger of ten minutes ago hidden inside. "Thanks," he says, clearly embarrassed, and I just tell him no problem, I was happy to help out, and he interrupts me, saying that he could tell I was and I laugh, flushed and happy.

And I realise that I love him, it's past infatuation, past lust now, I'm in love with Roger Federer and that doesn't weird me out as much as it should. Maybe it's because this has been going on for five years, maybe it's the fact that he just gave me the best hand job of my life in a locker room, or maybe it's just the fact that no matter what, he can make me smile. Even when my jeans are half way down my thighs, and I tug them up, not bothering to button them just yet.

I'm not really paying attention when he asks me what favour I want as repayment, and it's on the tip of my tongue to say that this was enough, he doesn't have to do anything else when I stop. "You can give me that Wimbledon trophy next year," I tell him, and he knows I'm joking because he laughs when I say it, and so I carry on, "because I think it's my turn. You've had your hands on it enough."

Still laughing, he touches my face and tells me that's a little too high of a price for this, just to give it to me, and I act offended, asking him if I'm not worth as much as that trophy. It's fun to joke around with him, I love that even after kissing - and a hand job - we can still go back to what we do as friends, and we still do it well. Though, playing him in a match might be another thing, because I don't know if I can stand across that net from him and not remember those hands on me.

We're kissing again, somehow I'd been so lost in my thoughts I hadn't noticed him leaning in, and there's a definite spark between us when we're just being us, not when we're pretending for anyone, and in the back of my mind I'm wondering should it be possible to get this hard again this quickly because I am. He notices and smiles into the kiss, making me giggle and from then on it's all downhill as one of his hands skims my stomach and I'm so ticklish there I can't help but laugh, squirming beneath his touch, trying to get out of his way but I'm left gasping for breath, begging him to stop until he does.

There's a wicked grin on his face now, smirk playing on his lips and I'm tempted to kiss it off him but I don't. I'm looking down at his feet, wondering if what they say about men with big feet is true when he asks me what I want.

I don't even have to think before I answer - "you," I say, "I've always wanted you," and I'm so relieved when he's not mad, when he doesn't run from me, although if he did I'd have to question who exactly was in here the last half hour, because it certainly wouldn't have been Roger, at least, not this Roger.

There's a look in his eyes which makes me think he had an ulterior motive for this but I leave it, not wanting to ruin the moment as I push back brown curls, smile playing on my lips. I don't want to talk, don't want to say anything that might make him run and so I do the one thing that I think - I hope - won't have him running for the door.

I kiss him again, and it's the same but different, me in control and right now, there's nowhere else I'd rather be, because I've got the one thing I want more than anything else.

And hopefully, he'll be around for a lot longer.


End file.
